Tovarisch Snajper!
by Synthesis
Summary: The story of a certain critical sniper from the Soviet Campaign in Red Alert 2.


**_Tovarisch Snajper!_**

I still blame myself for it. Not a day goes by that I don't think of San Antonio. It haunts me as much today, after the War ended, as much as it did when they first let me go.

They let me live. 

Maybe they were trying to be humanitarian. Or maybe they just wanted me to live with myself. 

Either way, they're probably very happy with themselves.

***

The Yanks were loosing the war. Loosing it badly. A disturbingly effective mix of strategic brilliance and superior numbers meant the Soviet Red Army was virtually unstoppable in America, as it was in France and in the rest of the world. American commanders now depended on the other Allies, particularly those in Europe, for men and material. England in particularly did all she could to help. 

So, they sent me. 

They sent me to some place in the American province of Texas, some city called San Antonio. I had never heard of it before. The Soviets had been slow to penetrate Texas, even though they had gone through it in their invasion from Mexico, in part, it was said amongst ourselves jokingly, because Texans were all armed to the teeth. We were all joking, of course. You know how we were. 

The Americans were very happy to see me, given the fact that they were Yanks and I was a 'Brit'. Turns out the American President Dougan had fled to an old fortress in the center of San Antonio, called the Alamo. The best the Americans had to offer were garrisoned in the area, the SEALs and the American Secret Service. They had heard about me, and about my record. Back than, forty-seven confirmed kills got you a lot of respect.

I arrived by Chinook at the barracks about a dozen blocks away from the concrete walls that surrounded the Alamo. As soon as I arrived, the few GIs that were still at the barracks left. So I was left by my lonesome, just me and my rifle, an old Lee Enfield No. 4 Mark I(T), a sort of relic. But if it was good enough to kill forty-seven Communists, I figured it would be good enough to kill more. 

For the first few days, nothing happened. Than President Dougan arrived by an armored limousine, and was rushed by his Secret Service into the Alamo. I didn't meet him, and it was just as well. A few minutes after her arrived, several Soviet carrier aircraft few over, releasing paratroopers.

I ran outside to get a better look, but I was too late. As soon as the paratroopers touched down, and almost before, they were mowed down by SEALs manning machineguns and the Prism Towers that surrounded the Alamo. Not a single one of them made it out alive. 

I almost felt sorry for them, watching them through my scope.

Funny thing was, though, I could have sworn that a single plane flew over, not releasing any paratroopers. 

***

I didn't hear anything on the radio after the paratroopers were killed. I waited quietly, just as the Americans had told me to do. They had assured me that, if needed, they would give me instructions. 

"Just find me a good vantage point," I told them. 

They assured me they would. But I never heard from them. 

After spending an hour back inside the barracks, alone. Then I noticed two small objects on the radar—barely large enough to be detected. They were definitely humans, as they were too small to be any sort of vehicles, and they moved at a slow, sluggish pace. 

I left the barracks, rifle in hand, and prepared to do what I did best, when I heard a voice behind me. Despite being foreign, it was reassuring, even comforting.

"_Tovarisch Snajper_!" the voice said, in a friendly manner. By the time they released me, I had learned that it was Russian for 'Comrade Sniper'. 

At the time, I just turned around.

And that was my greatest mistake.

***

I turned around, but not clumsily. I spun around on a heel, aiming my rifle straight ahead, a finger on the trigger. Right above the scope, I could see the speaker, an unusual looking bald man dressed in an ugly brown coat. I remember thinking about how he must have been sweltering in the Texan heat. 

And then I made my second mistake. I looked into his eyes. 

A cold feeling overcame me, and I began to sweat. My knees began to tremble, and my grip around my rifle tightened. My first instinct was to shoot now and ask questions later, but I couldn't pull the trigger. I tried, but I couldn't. I felt my body rigidly standing straight, as though being forced. 

Next to the bald man with the reassuring voice and the eyes stood another one, dressed in a more martial-looking brown uniform, with an officer's cap. In his hand he held an assault rifle, and he was aiming it at me. Beads of perspiration went down my forehead, and I continued trembling, unable to move. My head felt as though it was going to explode.

The bald man reached forward, as the officer barked out something I couldn't make out. Inside my head, I heard him speaking to the officer. _He is ours now._

The Officer looked at the bald man, seemingly unconvinced. He looked back at me, still brandishing his assault rifle, and slowly approached me. I had given up trying to fire, and all I wanted to do was turn and run. Run far away.

He slowly stepped towards me, until he was within an arms length. He reached out and grabbed my rifle, keeping his own trained on me, and pushed it away from him and the bald man. 

I couldn't react. 

He pushed it from side to side, seemingly experimenting, and after a few moments, turned to the bald man. He said something again, in a more friendly tone, and nodded, impressed. 

I heard the voice in my head again. _Thank you, Comrade General. _

I couldn't move my eyes, but the Comrade General, as he was apparently, was standing right in front of me, as he walked back to the bald man. He put a small radio, hooked to an antenna protruding from his backpack, to his mouth and spoke into it quickly. He then turned back to the bald man, and rambled off in Russian again. This time, I identified one word: "shieals", which I interpreted to mean "SEALs".

_Of course, Comrade General. _The bald man raised his hand and I found my body slightly more relaxed, but still beyond my control. The two of them watched me, and seemed to get smaller, gradually. After a minute, I realized I was walking away from them. Perhaps walking wasn't the word…my legs were mechanically marching me down the street, away from the base. 

The mechanical marching kept up for a while, and I admit I was starting to get used to it. _This must be what sleepwalking is like_, I told myself. 

_Sleeping is nothing like this, Snajper_, the voice in my head snapped. I watched as I walked up the fire-escape of a building, out of view of the SEALs. I climbed through the window, passed through a few doors, until I was in a room facing the entrance to the Alamo.

My body crouched over slightly, and, as I would do when I was in control of my body, I regulated my breathing and raised the rifle so my eye was at the scope. I focused in on the first SEAL, the one at the right end. I saw as a GI with two dogs turned the corner around the concrete walls.

I lined him up in my crosshairs. I already knew what my body was going to do, I had figured it out. 

My finger pulled the trigger, and mentally I screamed. 

The SEAL's head jolted considerably, as a mist of red popped from the back of his head. He did not cry out.

As he tumbled to the ground, the man next to him began to raise his rifle in my direction, but not after I had lined him up.

Pull the trigger. Another bullet. Red splatter on the ground. 

Then I lined up another one. It occurs to me now that the Russian was using my own natural sniper skill, as oppose to controlling my every move. He was letting _me _line up the shots, in a sense. 

Pull trigger. Bullet through head. Red splatter.

It went on until the tenth guard dropped. It was all over in a matter of seconds. I knew that my rifle was now empty—ten cartridges for ten men. 

I had to admit, that was an excellent hit ratio. 

I spent the rest of the day in that building, at the window. I saw President Dougan himself, flanked by two Secret Service agents holding briefcases, and was somewhat surprised at first when I did not find myself shooting him. I understood shortly: soon, the Comrade General and three of the bald Russian men were walking into the base, as I shot anyone who might harm them, as though they owned it, though the General still looked a little rattled. 

One of the bald men got control of the President. I could tell because he promptly left the Alamo and walked out into the street, as a Soviet helicopter landed. 

I don't distinctly remember the next few hours after I left my vantage point. The Soviets probably secured the Alamo, as well as the rest of San Antonio and possibly all of Texas. My memory did not return in full until they released me, while I was in the hold of a Soviet transport plane, sitting along one of the walls, opposite the General himself and that same bald man.

The General said something to the bald man, and gestured at me.

_You are positive, Comrade General?_

In my stupor, I heard him say "Da".

_As you wish, Comrade General. _

There was a popping sound in my brain, followed by a long ringing, as I fell to the floor of the plane, grabbing my pain. Blood immediately began to dribble out of my ears. After a moment, I looked up, and watched as the bald man walked away, leaving the hold of the plane.

The Comrade General knelt onto the floor, and helped me to my feet. Looking at me, with my own blood all over me, he seemed sympathetic. He then spoke directly to me, with a heavy accent.

"You are not well," he began, with his heavy, heavy Russian accent. But it was still English. He helped me to my seat in the plane, and offered me a kerchief. As I wiped my ears, my head feeling like it was going to explode, he continued. 

"You must have been going through hell. I cannot be imagining how bad it is to not being able to control your body," he explained. He gestured to the way the bald man had left. "He is what we are calling a Psychic Commando. I must be admitting, they are a terrible weapon. But still, this is war."

He gave me a pat on the back, and stood up. "I hope you will be feeling better latter. Don't worry, it is over, and you will be going to a hospital."

They had taken my rifle away from me, but left the combat knife I had concealed in my belt. I should have, and wanted to, whip it out and slash him across the throat. If I had, the war might not have been won so easily. But there was blood pouring out of my ears, and I could barely sit up. 

They flew me the Soviet Base in Mexico City. I received excellent medical care, and when I had stabilized, they put me in a psychiatric ward. A doctor told me that they would move me again once I returned to 'normalcy', if that was even a real word.

 I've been in the ward ever sense.

The war ended in a few weeks after San Antonio. The Soviets stormed the Allied Stronghold in Alaska. There was also rumors of a coup d'etat in Soviet Command during the closing hours of the War, and the Comrade General emerged as Comrade Premier. 

And after everything has happened, I just sit here, at my window. Letting the hours slip by.

I kind of wish the Soviets had just killed me after I served my purpose. But they didn't. 

It can't be helped, I suppose. I am, after all, "Comrade Sniper". 


End file.
